


Libertango

by caledonius72



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caledonius72/pseuds/caledonius72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot from Jack's past. Paris in the final days of the war. Short and bittersweet, romantic but not fluffy. Angsty, perhaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Libertango

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal.  
> Disclaimer: Love ‘em but don’t own ‘em. Others have that privilege  
>  **AN:** Inspired by “I've Seen That Face Before (Libertango)” by Grace Jones, a little dark but it suited the muse and my mood. I’ve tried to work all the lyrics into the story in one way or another, and probably will get a row for doing a songfic from TPTB.  
>   
> 

**Paris, 25 th August 1944, Late Evening  
  
**Jack had moved away from the main thoroughfares as the crush of people got a little too much. He’d been kissed by so many, after all an American accent and a British uniform were a welcome sight, and the Parisians knew how to party.

He’d spent many rainy nights on Hausmann Boulevard back at the fin de siècle and now in a nearby courtyard his footsteps echo on the stones.

He’d been in Paris for a few days, arriving with the rest of the allied forces. Enough to re-familiarise himself with the lay of the land and to find out the new hotspots. Stumbled on a few, depending sometimes on the kindness of strangers.

 There was the shock of the new superimposed on his memories of the old. The war had been kind to her, but bullet holes had left marks on Paris, like scars on the face of an old friend.

 He was in a strange mood. The celebrations, rather than cheering him, had left him feeling lonelier than ever. He paused like a hawk, stealing for the prey - he could sense someone, not far away.

He turned on his heels and marched out of the courtyard, deeper into the labyrinths that lay behind the impressive frontages. He snorted, realising that Paris was all fur coat and no knickers.

He needed someone, anyone; he would go home with anyone who _wants_. The someone moved off after him; a half-seen glimpse of a face in the reflected light.

_“Strange, I've seen that face before... seen him hanging 'round my door.”_

Joel! The boy he’d met, years ago, had become a man...

Jack could feel Joel moving after him, through the streets, straggles of people still celebrating. Parisian music, drifting from the bars. He paused in an entry way, wanting to confirm his recognition of Joel and his recollection of Joel’s stalking of him since he arrived. With Joel too, there was the shock of the new over the old. Joel’s face had a je ne sais quoi, a look like the night, waiting for the day.

Jack strode off again, determined to let Joel make the first move.

_“Strange, he shadows me back home...”_

Jack was content to let Joel follow him. The chase being just as exciting as the consummation.

He turned left and walked into the block he had been billeted in. The door to the concierge’s room was closed, he knew the woman was off, free to dance in bars and restaurants, celebrating the return of liberty.

His key slid into the door of the apartment. Shrugging off his great coat he pulled a bottle of brandy off the table and poured a generous measure. Without switching on the light he moved across to the window. Taking a mouthful and feeling the fire of the burn he stared into the street below. He sighed as he realised his mood – tristesse.

_“Strange, he's standing there alone”_

Jack swirled the remainder of the brandy in the glass. His jaw tightened as he came to a decision. Soon he was on the street and moving to Joel.

“Tu cherches quoi?” spat Joel. Anger and lust fought in his face.

Jack sighed and smiled ruefully at Joel. “Rencontrer la mort.”

“Tu te prends pour qui?” Somehow Joel was angrier.

Jack looked deep into Joel’s eyes under the streetlamp and hid a flinch. Staring eyes chilled him to the bone. “Toi aussi tu detestes la vie”

Joel moved to pull away sharply; Jack grabbed at his wrist and raised a hand, caressing the man’s face.

“C’mon...” and he led Joel upstairs.  
  
 **Paris, 26 th August 1944, Early Morning**

The early light flooded into the apartment, streets quiet as Paris slumbered. In his room, Jack took a look at his clothes. Last night’s were scattered and rumpled. He was moving on that day. The night had been full of anger and passion – no gentle give and take, but urgent and demanding. But a night without regret, without melodrama.

He looked around the room - on the walls, photos. Pinups and mementoes of other men who had stayed. The furniture came with the apartment. There was nothing there that meant anything to Jack. All he had would fit neatly into his case. Travelling lightly through time and through the world.

He turned to the window, and took in the view for a few moments, then turned to say thanks, goodbye, good luck.

But too late. The door slams, Joel is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> For those that don’t speak French here’s my rough-ish translation.  
> Tu cherches quoi? **_[You’re looking for what?]  
> _** Rencontrer la mort. **_[Meet, encounter, run into, find, hit, experience death]  
> _** Tu te prends pour qui? **_[Who are you to say that?]  
> _** Toi aussi tu detestes la vie, **_[You too - you hate life.]_**


End file.
